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LETTERS. 147
lieve, soon manages so that all persuasion will be su-
perfluous. May this be so!
I might have all sorts of trifling and funny things to tell
you, but I have now neither thoughts, ink, nor pen for any
other than the one subject. Why has not the mail wings?
Write soon and about every thing.
The other night, at the Franzéns, my mother heard my
little book spoken of. It was very much liked, and many
surmises were made as to who the author could be.
Srockuoim, 30th June, 1829.
1
Lost in the infinite, an obscure Atom bewailed his
nothingness: “ Why was I created,” he complained, “ if,
amongst all that lives, moves, and acts, I alone should feel
the pain of my insignificance? Oh! that I were only a
dew-drop, fallen from the clouds to refresh earth’s flowers.
Oh! that I were only a particle of the fountain’s crystal
water, so salutary to earth’s noblest son, man; or a
breath of air, which, at the Creator’s will, cools the weary
pilgrim’s throbbing temples ; or a flower’s fragrant exhala-
tion, which, life-giving and lovely, loses itself in the air
which it enriches. Oh! that I were for only one moment
of my obscure life, a comfort to some one, — then would I
bless my existence!” Thus inoaned the Atom.
Brightly the sun shone upon earth, giving life to all and
blessed by all. The rippling waves caressed the shores
where flowers gratefully bent over the refreshing stream,
on whose bosom their smiling images were mirrored.
Freshly and merrily the wind played amongst flowers and
foliage. Evening came. The dew fell upon the earth,
which gratefully sent up endless fragrance to benign
Heaven. Nature in silence scattered her favors. Nobody
and nothing either wanted or missed the Atom. He felt it,
and in a dim void, he thought that his life was slowly ending
or sinking like twilight into night. And night rested upon
the Atom; but he felt his own darker night. Then upon
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